


Do you think twice, or just touch and see?

by Birdbitch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Car Accidents (mentioned), M/M, Marijuana, Tony-centric, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:53:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: Tony's home for Summer, 1989, when he finds a magazine which survived several cleaning frenzies.





	Do you think twice, or just touch and see?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweetFanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/gifts).



> 1\. I don't know that I've ever actually written Stony.  
> 2\. Steve, though playing a huge role in this piece, is only here in spirit.  
> 3\. Tony's IROC was red; historically very few IROCs actually survived past the 80's because the way people drove them was not conducive to keeping a car from being totaled.  
> 4\. For Meeya (Sweetfanfics/https://ironswordandstarshield.tumblr.com/), who is one of the best.

Tony’s high when he jerks off to a recruitment poster featuring Captain America for the first time. It’s just after college; he’s nineteen and too smart for his own good, but not quite smart enough to stay out of trouble, and he’s stuck at home with no transportation after a DUI and completely destroying his IROC. (He’s lucky he walked away from the crash, and even luckier that he was the only one involved. He knows this. And yet, he thinks, maybe there should have been something to show for it…) Jarvis is otherwise preoccupied with running the household and preparing for a dinner Tony’s parents are hosting (he’s not going), and nobody is answering their phone, and Tony is bored. He’s redesigned the Camaro to the point where it wouldn’t even look like one anymore if he were to put the blueprints into practice, suped up and unconquerable, and he’s been smoking with the window open so his parents won’t know and his dad won’t yell at him (again, when he’s not being dismissive, it’s this). 

The poster is not actually a poster, it’s a magazine fold out. It’s from a WWII hobbyist magazine that’s a couple years old now, back from high school, he thinks. He can’t remember who gave it to him or how it escaped one of his mother’s bedroom purges which saw to the loss of at least a few Playboy magazines, a carton of Marlboro 100s, a dime bag, and several in-process inventions which she thought were junk because he’d started making them from an Erector Set. (He’d stopped being angry about her cleaning after the weed, since she hadn’t even realized what it was she was throwing out—some compulsions are just deep enough that they’re inexplicable and therefore, Tony thinks, forgivable.) There’s a crease through the middle of it, but it’s Cap in full. Strong jawline. Straight nose. Pectorals like tits, kind of like Tony sometimes thinks of Rocky’s. It’s in full color, too, which isn’t unusual now, but would have been, if Tony’s father’s memorabilia collection is to base anything on. 

Cap’s got an entire cult of personality, Tony thinks, eternally young and handsome and dying for people who wouldn’t have given a shit about him if his dad hadn’t helped stick him with VitaRays. And it’s a jealousy that breeds the familiarity between him and the memory of Steve Rogers, who Tony will never be like, like  _ ever _ , and Tony wants to hate Captain America as much as he hates his dad and the rest of his dad’s friends. There’s plenty of contempt that he could bleed there. Steve must have been an awfully nice guy; Peggy Carter was in love with the guy. Tony rolls his eyes; his own father is in love with the guy. 

This isn’t the only picture of Cap that Tony’s seen; there are plenty throughout the house, which is how he knows that Steve Rogers—after the serum—was just about perfect looking. Perfect hair, perfect jaw, perfect teeth...by contemporary standards, Tony thinks Captain America would be hot. Maybe he’d even be a hot geriatric, attractive into his 70s, hair graying first at the temples, then up into the rest of the blond. The serum keeping the worst of gravity from affecting him. Or maybe not; maybe it doesn’t work that way. It changed his DNA, at the least—had to have, Tony thought, even before he got his hands on what did remain from his father’s and Erskine’s combined research, notes which Howard would review all the time until Tony was about ten or twelve, as if by reviewing them they could verify to him that somewhere out there, Steve Rogers was capable of having survived. Tony leans back against his headrest and when his hand slips under the waistband, initially, it’s to adjust himself. Summer’s drifting in through the window, and he’s a little sweatier than he’d have thought. They have central air; he hasn’t touched the thermostat because he didn’t think he’d actually be home all that long.

It’s stupid, he thinks, and he thinks about Steve Rogers as flesh and blood and bone for a moment. There’s no way a guy could have survived that kind of crash. Tony’s studied the fucking aeroplanes; he’s a fucking mechanical engineer. Doesn’t matter if the guy is Superman, he’s not coming up from the deep like that. The way metal works just isn’t like that, and his dad should have known better, too. He hates the conspiracy theorists the most, the ones who are constantly “spotting” Steve or, worse, Bucky Barnes, all across Europe. The Soviets made them into spies. Bull. Tony swallows something hard at the back of his throat; his hand is still in his pants and Steve Rogers, behind the Captain America cowl, he smiling, inviting, telling him that he  _ wants him _ to join the fight. 

He pulls his hand out, goes to his desk, rolls another joint. Lights it, goes to the window and sits staring out at the sun as it starts dipping lower and lower. Steve Rogers or Captain America or whatever would probably listen to him, he thinks. He’s still waiting for his parents to get home before he never hears the end of the accident. Jarvis spared him the first wave of insults over the phone (“ _ I’m afraid he’s very shaken up, Mr. Stark. No, the doctor had explicit instructions that he rest for the time being. Yes sir. No sir. Enjoy the rest of your trip sir. Good day sir. _ ”) but not without his own dissatisfaction with Tony’s behavior. Tony crosses the room with the joint tight between his lips and picks up the magazine foldout, goes back to the window and sits down. Lays the poster out in front of him and pulls his pants down to his knees. Steve Rogers has a perfect smile, and probably a perfect tongue behind it. Captain America’s hands are probably calloused, which should be a turn off, but then, so are Rhodey’s, and it’s never bothered Tony before. His own hands are calloused from work. 

Makes it feel right, he thinks, and he closes his eyes. Uses his left hand. Captain America did the USO shows; there’s no way he didn’t know what to do with his hands and his mouth and everything else. Eternally young and strong—Tony feels like he gets why people are so fucking obsessed with him in general. Wouldn’t he be, if he weren’t his father’s son? Maybe. Probably not. He squeezes harder. Thinks not just about the poster in front of him, but one of the ones from his dad’s office, where Captain America’s concentrating on something, looking down with his shoulders a little hunched—it must be a map he’s looking at, based on the way his entire frame is, the furrow in his brow noticeable even though the film can’t have been great quality. Probably make that face—Tony shivers a little, then takes another hit, breathes deep.

In another universe, Captain America could even have actually been in his bedroom. (He looks more like a near-50 than the 70 and 80 year olds his dad hangs out with.) He’s older, and attractive still, and maybe a little gruff. There’s audio recording somewhere of Steve Rogers’s voice; Tony’s never listened to it and has to compensate. Tragic baby blue eyes and a hand that says, I know what you’re going through while Tony shouts out that no, nobody could ever understand what he’s going through, and then pushing into it, being pushed—onto his bed, pushing back, mouth against mouth and even in this fantasy that Tony’s playing out now, Steve’s features morph back into those of the guy on the poster. Whatever, he thinks, and bites his bottom lip because the last thing he wants is for Jarvis to hear him and think he like, rolled out of bed and hurt himself in his concussed state. Oh, no, Jarvis, I was just jerking off to the idea of my dad’s friend from The War fucking me while everybody else was downstairs. You know, his dead friend. No, the other dead friend.

He thinks of Steve Rogers being incredibly impressed by him and his intellect and his inventions. Thinking that he’s some kind of kid genius and liking it. Wanting him. Tony groans, because that’s it. Being wanted, he thinks, and he imagines of all things Captain America fucking him and telling him how good he is, how it’s okay that he fucked up, that everyone fucks up, and didn’t Captain America steal a plane once? Didn’t he hotwire Jeeps? Running a hand down Tony’s back, and the imagined version is almost too real, real enough at least that Tony’s hand quickens, and he’s coming, and there’s some that’s getting on the magazine foldout, and he doesn’t care because it felt good. He does it again for good measure, looking at the spunk across Captain America’s chest and face, and he makes sure to find the muscle relaxants the doctors prescribed him after the crash so that he can go to bed before he feels guilty about it.


End file.
